You will be assimilated {a collection of [t h r e e] }
by mshotpants
Ronaldo knew.
Carrick found this during practice one day, when he had tried his best not to stare when Owen and the coach were talking. Ronaldo left his spot where he was casually draped over Rooney’s side and slid his way over, leaning over Carrick’s shoulder liquidly, putting his lips obscenely close to Carrick’s ear and whispered, you’re staaaaaaaaaaring.
Carrick’s initial reaction was to sock him one, right across the jaw, maybe bruise up that pretty skin of his. Or maybe give him one right into his left eye; give him a rather impressive shiner. Oh yeah, the press will love that, so will the fans. Maybe not the fangirls, but he could live with the whining, he really could. Instead he swallowed it and shrugged off Ronaldo’s weight, don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.
Ronaldo smiled, a slow creeping smile that the paparazzi and the fans never got to see, of course not, his eyes slid over to where Hargreaves was standing, still deep in conversation with Sir Ferguson, I must be mistaken.
Carrick resisted the urge to flip him the bird - but that would have been unprofessional. And immature, then again so was sulking, but Carrick didn’t care; he was entitled to sulk. He could sulk all he wanted! He was going to sulk tonight, over a nice cold mug of beer and some kidney pie. He turned his back on Ronaldo (and Owen, his brain wailed) and concentrated on stretching his thigh muscle.
No such thing as over-doing it, Carrick thought and vindictively pressed down on his leg.
It was Hargreaves dream to play in Manchester Utd. And it was all thanks to this man that he did, he felt a sense of awe just by talking to him. This must be what idol worship felt like; he thought to himself and resisted the urge to giggle like a pubescent schoolgirl. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded along to what the other man was saying.
Lord Alex Ferguson completed his sentence (what did he say again?, wondered Hargreave’s brain) and smiled widely, reaching out one hand to pat the Canadian man warmly on the back.
You’ll do fine, Owen, Lord Ferguson said, still smiling.
I’ll do my best, sir, Hargreaves laughed.
The hand on his back was warm and sturdy.
Hargreaves thought it odd that Ferguson never bothered to move it, even after they started on a new conversation.
He had coached a lot of players in his days. Beckham, Strachan, Stam, all sprang to mind -- and while Beckham could make girls swoon just by blinking, and Ronaldo on the other hand, was so beloved by the press for being such a pretty face -- he had never quite seen someone with the same earthly charm as Hargreaves. Owen was ruddy, in a clean-cut, down-to-earth sort way. Ferguson put it down to Owen being from Calgary, after all, that area was infamous for its high plains and green foothills.
Brown hair, brown eyes, a warm easy smile; maybe that was why he thought that Owen would be the sort to be rooted firmly to the ground.
Owen also wore very nice cologne and worked out excessively on his back. He should know, his hand was on--
Ferguson resisted the urge to run his hands down Hargreave’s back and instead twitched his hands into his pockets.
Ronaldo knew.
Carrick found this during practice one day, when he had tried his best not to stare when Owen and the coach were talking. Ronaldo left his spot where he was casually draped over Rooney’s side and slid his way over, leaning over Carrick’s shoulder liquidly, putting his lips obscenely close to Carrick’s ear and whispered, you’re staaaaaaaaaaring.
Carrick’s initial reaction was to sock him one, right across the jaw, maybe bruise up that pretty skin of his. Or maybe give him one right into his left eye; give him a rather impressive shiner. Oh yeah, the press will love that, so will the fans. Maybe not the fangirls, but he could live with the whining, he really could. Instead he swallowed it and shrugged off Ronaldo’s weight, don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.
Ronaldo smiled, a slow creeping smile that the paparazzi and the fans never got to see, of course not, his eyes slid over to where Hargreaves was standing, still deep in conversation with Sir Ferguson, I must be mistaken.
Carrick resisted the urge to flip him the bird - but that would have been unprofessional. And immature, then again so was sulking, but Carrick didn’t care; he was entitled to sulk. He could sulk all he wanted! He was going to sulk tonight, over a nice cold mug of beer and some kidney pie. He turned his back on Ronaldo (and Owen, his brain wailed) and concentrated on stretching his thigh muscle.
No such thing as over-doing it, Carrick thought and vindictively pressed down on his leg.
It was Hargreaves dream to play in Manchester Utd. And it was all thanks to this man that he did, he felt a sense of awe just by talking to him. This must be what idol worship felt like; he thought to himself and resisted the urge to giggle like a pubescent schoolgirl. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded along to what the other man was saying.
Lord Alex Ferguson completed his sentence (what did he say again?, wondered Hargreave’s brain) and smiled widely, reaching out one hand to pat the Canadian man warmly on the back.
You’ll do fine, Owen, Lord Ferguson said, still smiling.
I’ll do my best, sir, Hargreaves laughed.
The hand on his back was warm and sturdy.
Hargreaves thought it odd that Ferguson never bothered to move it, even after they started on a new conversation.
He had coached a lot of players in his days. Beckham, Strachan, Stam, all sprang to mind -- and while Beckham could make girls swoon just by blinking, and Ronaldo on the other hand, was so beloved by the press for being such a pretty face -- he had never quite seen someone with the same earthly charm as Hargreaves. Owen was ruddy, in a clean-cut, down-to-earth sort way. Ferguson put it down to Owen being from Calgary, after all, that area was infamous for its high plains and green foothills.
Brown hair, brown eyes, a warm easy smile; maybe that was why he thought that Owen would be the sort to be rooted firmly to the ground.
Owen also wore very nice cologne and worked out excessively on his back. He should know, his hand was on--
Ferguson resisted the urge to run his hands down Hargreave’s back and instead twitched his hands into his pockets.